


Contrary to Belief

by glimcold



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Enthusiastic Consent, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Neighbors, Protectiveness, Switching, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10045685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glimcold/pseuds/glimcold
Summary: Wade makes for a funny sight with his arms straight up in the air, those baby blues like saucers, and his Captain America boxers tented despite the threat of death. And, of course, he still manages to run his mouth. “Y’know, I’ve been dreaming of the day I got to see those web shooters in bed, but-”Peter’s aim is steady even as his head swims as it finally sinks in that hesleptwith this idiot. “How did you know?” he demands, voice much steadier than he expected it to be.“Well, you see, I was at Hellhouse looking for a job - I’ll spare you the details - but I was there, and there was a job listing for killing you. Suddenly the writer was like ‘Hey, do you want to get laid by Spidey and get a cat in the process?’ and I was like-”“Thewhosaidwhatnow?”-An old lady dies, setting off a seemingly random chain of events. (It's not really all that random, Peter's just the only one who still hasn't figured out what's going on.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Man do I love me some Identity Porn.
> 
> This is more comic than movie-verse. Also, Pete's relationship w/Tony and others is definitely all comic, no movie.

 

Miss Feibusch dies on a Saturday.

Peter knows because her daughter can be heard in the hall, calling her mother’s name and banging on the door. Her voice is shattered, honest fear creeping into it, as she cries, “Mama? Mama, please. _Bitte_ , open the door.”

Setting aside his coffee and the thick physics textbook that has occupied his lap for the past hour, he listens closely to the sounds of their apartment building and the constant pulse of New York outside. A morning talk show is on in the apartment next to his, and he can hear the tenant, Algar, snoring as it drones on; upstairs is Seda, laughing on the phone with her mother, her words a smattering of English between long flows of Turkish; and finally there is Eliane Feibusch.

Her heart is racing: a beat that seems to speak to him in some instinctual way, making his own heart pick up speed. She calls to her mother, mournful and weak. Just as Eli does, he suspects her time has come.

The heavy locks on Miss Fei’s door rasp open. Chest tightening and his _sense_ prickling in the pit of his stomach, Peter closes his eyes as if he can block out what’s about to happen. He recognizes the broken noise that seems to claw its way out of Eliane’s throat, horrific and all too familiar, as it’s a cry that he’s heard from his aunt’s lips as well. With that, he’s sure Miss Fei is gone.

Gulping down the rest of his coffee, he goes to get another cup and take some ibuprofen for the headache setting in.

A few minutes later, Eliane is at Peter’s door, face pale. Miss Fei’s norgie is in her arms, squirming. Peter automatically reaches out to take the cat, used to doing so for Miss Fei who could hardly carry her. Eliane draws away, surprised.

Pain curls in his chest as he watches her blink away tears. There’s a moment of awkward tension between them, the cat still wriggling and Eliane’s eyes distant, as if she’s looking right through him.

He wants to help, but he knows there is nothing he can offer other than patience. He steps back to give her space.

Natush cries fitfully, green eyes wide.

“Is something…” Peter begins, but playing ignorant leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

She doesn’t explain, simply nodding weakly. “May I come in?”

Taking another step away just in time for Natush to break free of Eliane’s hold, Peter opens the door wide, letting the cat make herself at home as Eliane enters with more caution.

“I’m sorry. She really is a spoiled thing,” she mutters, her amusement falling just short of sincere. Her eyes follow the cat as she heads for Peter’s kitchen. “You do usually bring her here, don’t you? When you sit for-” The words can’t leave her throat; she looks stricken.

After a moment, he supplies, “Yeah, I do. It’s okay.”

Eliane nods slowly.

“Is-” He clears his throat. “Is there anything I can do?”

There’s a tenseness around her shoulders that only grows more pronounced as he speaks. It’s almost as if the thought of asking for help is painful to her.

His heart aches, his empathy sickeningly strong, and he thinks about his uncle.

“Would it be too bothersome for me to stay here?” she asks finally. “Ah, while I- while I call.”

He shakes his head, closing the door. “Make yourself at home. It’s the least I can do.”

Peter ends up awkwardly perched on the couch, the cat curled up in his lap as she gnaws on his thumb. Eliane stands closer to the door, as if unsure she’s really welcome inside. He offers her a seat, then he offers to leave the room while she calls or to let her into the bedroom for privacy but she declines it all.

Natush drags her tongue over the pad of his thumb and he winces at the sharp sensation.

“Hello, is this- I- My mother has passed away. I need someone to come- Yes,” she sobs, broken and relieved, into the phone. She’s trying to keep her voice down as if to avoid bothering Peter, and he feels both endeared and frustrated. “Thank you.”

She hangs up, and makes another call.

Eliane is a tall woman with a wan face and kind eyes, and she has always been anxious. Whenever he has crossed paths with her before, usually when visiting Miss Fei’s apartment to help her with groceries or pick up her cat before she goes to New Jersey with Eliane, she has awkwardly rubbed at her throat and kept her arms crossed over her chest as if trying to hide. Today, it is much worse, sweat beading her brow as she worries her lip bloody.

He watches, chest hollow, as the poor woman stands in the corner of his apartment, tearfully speaking to her brother in German.

Gently tapping the cat’s side, Peter prods her from his lap. She cries to him as he goes to the kitchen, still expecting food. He makes Eliane tea and hands it to her as soon as she’s off the phone, helping her to the living area when her knees begin to shake. She’s trying not to cry.

Peter looks at the clock subtly, but says nothing about all of the homework he needs to take care of or how he’s going to be out all night tomorrow on patrol or even how he promised to call Aunt May in half an hour or so. Instead, he rests a hand on the shaking woman’s shoulder, keeping his touch light. With a gentle prod, she’s leaning into his touch even as they move to the other room, sighing as if this is the only relief she’s had all day.

Eliane ends up sitting on the couch, clutching the mug to her chest and staring at Peter’s worn coffee table blankly as she slowly rubs the back of her neck. He takes the spot next to her after a moment of hesitation, and Natush jumps to squeeze between them.

She won’t stop crying and butting against their sides. Peter wonders if she knows what’s happened to her owner.

Scratching behind the cat’s ear in hopes of quieting her, he offers to go speak to the police officers when they arrive for Miss Fei, but Eliane shakes her head.

“I know this is sudden,” she says, voice watery, “but would you mind watching her terribly?”

“I have food left over from the last time I watched her for Miss Fei,” he tells her as answer. He winces, as if he hates to speak her name, but Eliane seems unperturbed.

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

For the rest of the day, Peter struggles through a paper for chem, listening to the bustle of officers and other officials across the hall. The cat scratches at the door and wails no matter how hard he tries to distract her. He gets little done, and all of his hard work simply leads to a headache.

  


-

  


“This isn’t right!” Eliane snaps. Her voice is thin and quaking as if she’s struggling to hold back.

Peter looks up from the water he’s been watching for the past five minutes, waiting restlessly for it to boil, ears straining to catch what’s going on outside his door. There’s a bang, and he tenses, fingers tight around the lip of the counter. Familiar, the dry sound of metal against metal tells him the door to Miss Fei’s apartment has just been locked. The heavy footsteps that follow make his stomach knot.

“Ma’am, listen - I get that your old lady was in good shape - I really do-”

“She was healthier than me!” Eliane snaps, shrill. “You aren’t listening! Mama never had coffee after ten - she just never did it, do you hear me? She wouldn’t have used that cup, either! Someone poisoned her!”

The man, who Peter assumes to be an officer, scoffs, derisive and condescending. He’s pushed himself away from the counter before he can stop himself and the next thing he knows he’s leaning out of his apartment and into the hall.

Hearing the click of the door, Eliane and the officer look to Peter, almost surprised to find someone could hear them. He swallows thickly, suddenly feeling as if he’s trespassing but the sheer relief on Eli’s face reassures him.

She looks frail, her already pale skin washed out and her eyes dark. And, standing before the tall officer, she appears all the more fragile. His grip tightens on the door handle.

“Is everything okay?”

Rolling his eyes, the man tilts his head back and stretches his shoulders. “Yeah, kid. It’s fine.”

Peter meets Eliane’s eyes, looking for honesty or reassurance, but there is none. She’s afraid.

“I need to go,” the officer says firmly. “I’m sincerely sorry, ma’am.”

With that, he stalks down the hall and out the door, leaving them both in silence. The tension is so thick it’s suffocating, but before Peter can speak Eliane’s phone is ringing. She looks at him apologetically as she answers.

“Honey? Ah- Ah, I- Right. I’m coming.” She shifts from foot to foot, jaw tight. She fishes her keys out of her pocket, eyes nervously flicking to Peter. “Honey, I’m coming home. Don’t worry, I’ll get it on the way home. If you feel yourself getting sick again….”

Peter watches her go, something heavy settling in his chest.

  


-

  


Apartment 304 is quickly cleared out. Movers come almost immediately; their large truck is stationed out front and he hears them bustling around across the hall for one long day.

Peter sees the door wide open one day on his way to class and pauses, peering inside. What was once a warm, cluttered space is now completely bare. Miss Fei is truly gone.

He tries hard not to think about the awkward shuffling about May and he did when they were faced with a home full of remnants of his uncle but empty of the man himself. Chest tight and mind wandering again and again to Ben’s scent on the clothes they had carefully but methodically removed from the closet, Peter can recall it so clearly that he feels as if he’s there again, standing in front of the half-empty closet with his nose pressed to his uncle’s worn flannel shirt.

Numb, he turns away from the sight just as he sees movement inside. He doesn’t have it in him to see Eliane, not today.

  


-

  


Riel from 306 helps oversee things when Eliane can’t. Peter hears him quite often, his laughter along with that of the movers enough to make him smile himself. Riel is a good guy and often watches out for the older population in their building, getting their mail and walking their dogs sometimes. He’s a contagiously happy man with a bright smile and the type of obnoxious humor that Peter is drawn to.

Riel drops by Peter’s apartment on occasion and is even kind enough to bring him leftovers from the pizza place he works at. He keeps Peter updated throughout the week, telling him when they only have a few things left and bringing him the remainder of the cat food he found in the apartment and even Natush’s bowls.

“Miss Fei sure did have a lot of books,” he grumbles, stretching his arms as he leans up against Peter’s counter. Next to him sits a slice of pineapple and ham pizza, half-eaten and burnt; he picks at it, pouting. “Like _a lot_. How do people even have time to read anymore? Unless they’re smarties like you, I mean.”

“She was old.”

He laughs. “Yeah, true.”

“How has Eliane been?” Peter asks, washing the handful of dishes that have accumulated in the sink over the past few days.

“Eh….”

“Not good, then?”

“Bickering with Fitz.”

Peter sighs.

“Apparently he’s already got people looking into renting the apartment but Elie is…. Honestly, I’m not really sure what Elie is. Just doesn’t want to give up the past, I guess.”

When Riel is finished, he takes a moment to play with Natush and a piece of string before leaving, waving at Peter as he goes.

Burdened with a sudden melancholy, Peter watches the cat bat the string across the hardwood floor. He draws his phone from his pocket and texts Eliane. There’s no response.

  


-

  


Peter begins to get anxious when Natush is still in his care by Saturday. He doesn’t mind having her around, in fact, she makes great company when she’s not pawing at the web-shooters he leaves sitting on his desk or getting fur all over his clothes. But, adding to his stress, she has once again taken to sleeping on his chest and waking him in the middle of the night as she usually does when he sits her. He doesn’t have the money to feed her as he’s living on PB & J, ramen, and oatmeal himself. Mostly PB & J, and, with that said, more PB than anything else.

In the past, Miss Fei always gave him food for her and thankfully so as the cat isn’t small and, as Eliane has said, is spoiled. He still has plenty left from what Riel brought him, but it will run out eventually.

It’s midday now, and the cat is weaving between his feet as he puts together yet another peanut butter sandwich. “You eat better than me,” he comments, envy for a damn cat clear. “Some _Fancy Feast_ shit….”

He wonders, briefly, about giving Natush to Mr. Sheinfield in 412, as he complains about mice every time they bump into each other when getting their mail.

She mewls and butts her head against his calf.

Sighing, he kneels and the cat rears up, nosing at his fingers before she lets him pet her head.

“Spoiled,” he reiterates. She purrs.

  


-

  


“This sure is a nice day,” Tony comments.

Peter looks at him steadily.

“What?” he lilts, all false innocence and cheer. It’s sort of weird to hear it through the suit, his expression concealed so Peter has no clues to indicate what the hell is going on.

After scanning Tony over once more and finally accepting nothing about the hunk of metal is going to tell him anything, he sighs heavily, rolling his shoulders back. “C’mon, what am I doing here?” he demands, motioning to the woods around them.

They’re deep in Central Park, of all places. The North Woods is certainly the last place he expected Tony to to ask to meet (not really his style), but here they are. He can’t stop looking around, half expecting something to pop out or for men in suits to appear and thrust papers under his nose. Tony hasn’t given up on getting him to join the Avengers, after all, and sometimes he wakes up in the morning to find little packs of papers as thick as his pinkie stuffed under the door.

They’re both in full uniform, which is unnerving on its own. He’s about to tell Tony to cut the shit, to take off the helmet, but he does it on his own. Helmet retracted, revealing Tony’s dark, expressive eyes, Peter almost audibly groans when he gets a look at his expression. He’s _worried_.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Peter?”

He narrows his eyes, immediately insulted by the condescension in his tone. “Well, hello there, Captain America.”

Huffing, scandalized, Tony puffs up and practically pouts. “Say that again, I-”

“Don’t play games. What do you want?”

Tony purses his lips, hands folded together; the interruption has him gritting his teeth. Peter almost laughs, but then his eyes are going steely and he’s back to groaning.

“I’ve been there for you and your family,” he says, _condescending_. “I’ve worked with you. I consider you my,” he wavers, “friend.”

Peter feels the first prickles of unease, along with fondness. It’s not a combination he likes. Makes him a little nauseous, if he’s being honest. Still, when Tony lets himself fucking relax and stop the idiotic, emotionless-asshole charade, it makes Peter breathe easier. He wants to think that Tony is about to ask a favor, something important but overall insignificant, but he knows that instead he’s going to hear a spiel about duty or some other bullshit. And it hurts, because he can see already that Tony is using this admission of a relationship just to get what he wants, as he always does.

He wishes he could hate him for it, but Peter’s not the type.

Still, he can’t stand to hear it. When Tony speaks, saying, “ _Peter_ …” his voice is suddenly laden with the typical hero-ly power and persuasion; once again, Peter swears he’s picking these things up from Steve. “We…. Hell, there have been things that have-”

“Cut the bullshit. I don’t like what you’re insinuating.” He steps closer, his shoulders stiff and head held back. It feels stupid to try to stand tall next to a suit of nitinol, but he likes to think the confidence is what matters, fake or otherwise. “What do you think is going on, exactly? You think I’ve _betrayed_ you? _Lied_ to you? Why would I do that, huh? Why would I ever? You know me. You consider me your friend? Well, you should know I would never _betray_ a-”

There’s a shout and both of them jerk their heads in the direction of the noise. Laughter quickly follows. It’s just some kids playing.

Releasing his breath, Peter looks back to Tony, finding his face significantly softer. His wet eyes are now warm, lips curling into a sad smile. Peter wishes he could hate him for so many things right now.

“Right,” he says. “Right. I’m sorry. It’s just- Shit.” He cocks his head, mind a thousand miles away. Jarvis is chattering in his ear, loud enough for Peter to catch only small hints of this and that but it’s enough to know something is going on in Philly.

Peter huffs out a weak laugh, unsurprised.

“This isn’t a good time,” Tony begins to tell Jarvis, irritation tinting his voice.

“It’s okay. Go take care of it. Do you need help?”

“No, it’s fine. But listen,” he says with that same tone that sounds more Captain America than Tony Stark. “Be careful, you hear? I don’t like that neighborhood you’re living in. Your neighbors are….” He makes a noise in the back of his throat and twists his hand.

“My neighbors are mostly cranky old men, sweet old ladies, and a few families down on their luck.”

“It’s a rough neighborhood,” he counters. “When I offered to support you through college, I had bigger things in mind than a dumpy-”

“ _Dumpy_?”

“ _\- dangerous_ shithole.”

“We really need to work on your manners, Mr. Millionaire. Are you seriously trying to tell me I’m in danger of a _bubbe_ killing me?”

He rolls his eyes, and Tony being Tony, the movement seems to involve his whole body, head cocked and shoulders shifting. “ _Peter_ ,” he begins, yet again, and he really does sound like Captain that time, but he’s quickly distracted by Jarvis once more, wincing as he’s nagged. He looks at Peter one last time, shaking his head. “Be careful, kid. And remember: I will get you a better apartment! The offer still stands!”

Pete steps back, giving him space as the suit moves to cover his face once more. Iron Man leaves the clearing, the trees shaking with the shifting air.

Spider-Man is gone by the time people have rushed into the area to investigate.

  


-

  


The apartment doesn’t stay empty long.

Peter returns home from patrol two weeks after the death, lip split and jaw bruised but otherwise fine, and he immediately knows the apartment has been taken. Sliding the window open, he sneaks in while it’s dark. The typical aches and pains are nothing that a hot shower won’t solve, but tonight he can hear the couple upstairs fighting, the baby all the way on the other side of the building crying, and across the hall _Juke Box Hero_ is being played in place of Miss Fei’s usual shows.

It feels wrong, almost like an insult to her memory. He has no right to feel upset over it, and he knows it, but it still rubs him the wrong way.

He already shucked off his suit a few blocks away and stuffed it away in the bag he now sports, one of the many he keeps tucked in strange places around the city. He takes it out now, fabric pinched between thumb and forefinger, wincing at its scent. He quickly decides it’s best to wash both the suit and the backpack.

Natush mewls and trots in from the other room, pausing to sniff at the leg of the suit dragging on the floor. Peter throws it into a nearby hamper, shaking his finger at her as if to keep her from getting into his laundry the way she usually does. “You’ll stink. I don’t know how to wash a cat - especially one as fluffy as you.”

She butts her head against his shin and he takes a moment to scratch beneath her chin before slipping into the bathroom.

The new neighbor sings along to _Sweet Child O’ Mine_ while cooking. Peter, with his heightened senses, can hear even over the spray of water against his shoulders. Pressing his head to the tile on the wall, he takes a deep breath through his nose, vainly attempting to ground himself and block out the noise.

Said neighbor cannot sing well. He has a rough, ragged voice like gravel and knives and smoke; it breaks in the strangest places, leaving Peter wondering if he’s doing it on purpose. He already has a headache.

Luckily, it stops soon, but not before he’s out of the shower, using his towel to dry his hair and cover his ears. If this is going to be a regular occurance he’s not going to get any rest, he’s sure of it. He’s already contemplating calling up Fitz, but he’s a shitty landlord to say the least so Peter isn’t sure it would do any good, particularly if what Riel said about the new tenant is true.

Speak of the devil: he can hear Riel across the hall, telltale limp making the floors squeak in a certain way that gives him away every time. Peter listens closely, a part of him curious about who it is that has been haggling with Fitz this past week, at least according to Riel’s account.

The source of all the gossip among the residents, Riel has a knack for wriggling his way into people’s lives and getting them comfortable enough to spill secrets. The old _bubbes_ love him because he knows all sorts of things he really shouldn’t due to his charm, and from delivering pizza, apparently.

“You wouldn’t believe the shit that happens on the job,” he told Peter while eating the burnt crust the other man had decided to avoid. “Get college kids like you offering me _mota_ and a good time. Once, walked in on Thor bickerin’ with that sweet-ass ninja the Avengers keep around - I swear to fuck. Goddamn Spider-Man ordered a pizza, can you believe that?”

Peter could believe that, because Peter had _done_ that (and the “sweet-ass ninja” was Natasha, and the “arguing” was more their typical rambunctious bickering and jeering about whether or not Nat could take on a _skjaldmær_ ). Sometimes Riel brings it up again, in awe, and tells about the tip Tony gave him and how he bought “ baby girl - light of my life - sweetheart Leah” her school uniform with it.

Peter thanked Tony, and still feels somehow indebted and fond of him for it even when he’s an ass.

A day ago, or maybe two, Riel had showed up at Pete’s door, eager to share about the new tenant. Apparently he had run into the man while hanging around Fitz’s apartment, hoping to pester him. Instead, he somehow ended up nosing his way into a conversation between him and aforementioned tenant, which isn’t really surprising, knowing him.

“Yeah, I think he actually managed to get the skinflint to bring the price down a little - _after_ convincing him not to give the place to the other asswipe. And a good thing! That one was a real _bitch_ \- I tried talkin’ to him and he spat on my damn shoes!

“But this new guy - holy shit, man, this _new_ guy! Should’a seen ‘im! He’s fuckin’ huge! Fifty pounds on you, big guy!” he teased, reaching out to poke Peter’s bicep. “I wouldn’t say no to him, either, man.” Riel had whistled lowly. He stuffed another crust between his teeth, mumbling, “Real ugly motherfucker, too.”

Peter hadn’t dignified that with a response.

Now, he hears Riel’s knock, and sighs heavily. If only he had more of a sense of self-preservation and didn’t bother the “fuckin’ huge” neighbors. Still, Peter listens instead of intervening.

The door swings open - Peter recognizes the squeal of its hinges. Riel laughs brightly, and lilts, “What’s up, big man?”

The answering laugh is rough and low; Peter’s hair stands on end, his heart stuttering in his chest. “Not much,” the new tenant replies. “You’re the guy? The nosy guy? Come to stick your nose in my business again, buddy?”

Peter slowly tosses his towel aside, not caring where it falls. He feels like he’s moving underwater. He can hear their conversation, but he can no longer focus on it. His “Spidey Sense” is screaming: stomach seeming to creep rather than plumet, fingers twitching, and eyes wide but unseeing.

Riel scoffs playfully. “C’mon, man! It’s like my job around here. Gotta keep all the old ladies up to date on the gossip, y’know?”

The man chuckles, the noise warm and rough, oddly pleasant. “Sounds like a fulltime job.”

“But it’s quite rewarding!”

“Rewarding like you get cookies out of it or rewarding like-?”

He cuts off, and suddenly Riel is howling. For just a moment, Peter thinks he’s been hurt, but then he’s laughing, barely managing to spit out, “You’re a real freak, aren’t you?”

Finally, the underwater sensation of it all fades and Peter is moving.

Rushing to his dresser, he tugs on an old t-shirt and some worn jeans, his boxer-briefs already on. His skin is damp along his back, and his shirt sticks there unpleasantly. Chest tight with anxiety, it’s hard to think straight. As soon as he’s zipping up his fly, he’s regretting not jumping into his suit and rushing out again, as if he could somehow stop whatever is about to happen; it’s stupid, and more likely to get his identity revealed than anything else, yet he somehow feels powerless in civvies. He’d honestly do it, but his protective streak is making him itch to get out there ASAP.

Stalking to the door, he rubs at his wrists, feeling uneasy about lacking his shooters. Still, he goes.

He focuses on their words once more as Riel says, “Mostly old folks, y’know? Sort of fun, though! You’d be surprised what these old ladies get up to. But not like that, you damn pervert!”

“Oh, I know they’re a wild bunch. Used to live with an old, blind lady. She never let me masturbate in peace,” he sighs wistfully. Both Peter and Riel choke back shocked laughs.

“Maaan, you’re the fuckin’ wild one,” Riel hoots. “Y’know, me ‘n Pete split the shitty pizzas the new kids from the shop fuck up and watch football - well, when he lets me. He’s a nerd so he’s usually watching Star Trek and shit. Y’know - nerd stuff.”

Peter rolls his eyes, pausing at the door to try to get Natush to stop following him. She meows instead.

“Pete?”

“Ah, yeah! He’s not introduced himself yet? _What an asshole_!” he adds loud enough for everyone on the hall to hear. Peter rolls his eyes. “Ha! Yeah, that’s Peter’s place. He’s a real ray of sunshine. The only resident college kid. The ‘bub-bees’ love him. Jewish boys, am I right?”

He opens the door, glaring, and Riel immediately turns to him, arms open, cheering, “Peter!”

“Asshole.”

Natush mewls pathetically.

Peter’s eyes flicker away from Riel, to the man standing behind him. He freezes, chest growing tight. The first thing that catches his attention is the bright blue of the other man’s eyes, the only relief on a tortured face. Everything else is raw skin and scars, as if the man has been eaten up by flame yet somehow lived to tell the tale. It’s not beautiful, and it’s not easy to look at; Peter’s stomach knots with his empathy as he imagines the pain behind so many wounds.

The new tenant quirks a brow, blue eyes steely, as if challenging him to say anything. Peter flushes when he realizes he’s been staring, but doesn’t look away. He opens his mouth to apologize, but the words don’t come out.

Suddenly there’s a sharp pain in his calf and he hisses, turning around to find Natush reared up to knead at his skin. She cries, green eyes searching.

Peter steps out of his apartment, awkwardly prodding her back with his foot. “No, no, no. Stay. No.”

She meows shrilly and paws at the sole of his foot ineffectively.

“You still have that thing?” Riel asks. Peter is relieved to have the tense silence break.

“Yeah. I haven’t heard anything from Eliane.”

“Oh, that’s the daughter of the old lady that lived here before you,” Riel explains to the man. “And that was the old lady’s cat. Like I said, Peter’s a real Jewish boy.”

“That’s offensive,” Peter says, but he’s laughing as he reminds, “I’m not Jewish.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah - your parents were.”

“No, they weren’t. Are you going to introduce us?” he grouses and leans back against the door once it’s closed. His heart is racing and the skin along his brow prickles; he’s not sure if the dampness gathering there is sweat or simply water he failed to wipe away.

He looks back to the other man and barely refrains from jumping when he finds him staring. “Wade,” he says simply. “I’d offer to shake but,” he holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers, letting them both get a good look at the scars that curl over even his palms.

Peter feels queasy.

“Jesus,” Riel mutters. “Fire?”

“Nah. Believe it or not, my daddy was just that ugly.”

Riel fucking chokes on his laughter, doubling over and coughing into his hand.

Peter keeps his eyes trained on Wade as he leans back against his door, mirroring Peter’s position. He smiles thinly when he catches Peter staring once more. “What’s wrong? I’m just kidding, kid. You have to be funny when you have a face like this - how else are you gonna get laid?”

“That why you lived with the blind lady?” Riel teases, grin broad. “Got some nice ass and she didn’t even have to see your ugly mug?”

Peter shoots him a sharp look even as Wade cheerfully intones, “You know it! Dentures sure are fun.”

As he says it, however, Peter can pick up on the tenseness in his voice. He may act like he’s okay, but it hurts him, that much is clear. For such a big, gruff man, he’s extremely transparent - almost too easy to read.

Peter shifts from foot to foot, brow furrowed as he takes in the tension around Wade’s eyes. Bumping his shoulder against Riel’s, he shakes his head. “Shut up,” he mutters lowly, trying to warn him to ease up.

Riel’s a nice guy but at times he can be blunt and oblivious; now is one of those times.

He rolls his eyes, mouthing _Jewish boy_. Wade snickers.

Nudging his shoulder again, Peter tells him, “Go get some beer and whatever Miss Juniper brought around so I can make a proper meal with it.”

He immediately perks up. “She brought potatoes. What’d she give you?”

“Leeks,” Peter says warily. “I think?”

Riel snorts, already stumbling backwards he’s so eager; offering to cook is the quickest way to get him moving. “Okay, okay! We watching football?”

“Over my dead body. It’s Star Trek night,” Peter teases, earning a bright peal of laughter.

Riel shakes his head and skitters off, nodding to Wade as he goes.

Peter turns to the man once more, a heaviness pressing on his chest from the guilt he feels. Aunt May would be ashamed of how he’s acted, and that alone has his heart heavy. Staring - _gawking_ \- he feels like a goddamn asshole.

When Wade shifts, crossing his arms, Peter catches a glimpse of a patch on his jacket marked by the dagger and arrows used to represent the special forces. He’s a military man. His guilt compounds.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Wade says, lips twitching at his expression. “I’m a big boy.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s right,” he husks, but his shoulders slump as he relaxes.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Uh, thank you,” Peter says awkwardly. “For your service. I mean, I-I assume? That’s why you have that patch?”

Grin manic, he seems to stand up a little straighter. “I live to serve if you know what I mean,” he husks, waggling his brow.

Peter rolls his eyes but he’s still grinning. “You’re sort of terrible.”

“Why, thank you!”

Despite all the cheer, Wade is gazing at him with a vulnerability that seems to appear out of the blue. Discomfort prickles at the back of Peter’s neck. He swallows thickly, slowly looking away.

“Uh, about Riel,” he mutters, glaring at Riel’s door as if he can will him back, “he’s really a nice guy. Just a little dense. I’m sorry about… this,” he concludes, awkwardly at best.

Wade lurches forward, his large form suddenly looming into Peter’s space. It makes him jolt, eyes immediately trained on him. His _sense_ is going wild.

“Wanna make it right?” he croaks, blue eyes huge and shining. They belie the goofy facade he’s trying so hard to maintain, revealing an intensity that’s entirely serious.

Peter’s heart stutters in his chest and suspicion creeps up his spine. It’s written all over his face, and he knows it as soon as Wade’s own expression begins to darken.

He laughs, pained and half-crazed. “Don’t worry! I don’t bite!”

Studying his eyes, Peter glances down the hall and then back to those eyes, so big and blue. The heart there is clear and shocking. It reminds him of someone, but he can’t put his finger on who. It only adds to his discomfort. He swallows it down, though, in the shadow of his guilt.

He rubs the back of his neck and steps closer, eyes flicking from where Riel retreated down the hall to the man’s face. It’s haunted: the deep, dark marks beneath his eyes drawn out by the fluorescents and his eyes cold. White, ragged lines; imprints like the remnants of holes; shallow pockmarks revealing hurts Peter can’t begin to imagine; and and raw, festering skin all along his jaw and throat, all make it hard to look away. Uneasiness settles in his stomach, heavy. When he meets those blue eyes again, his _sense_ goes wild.

Stepping away, Peter keeps his eyes on Wade but doesn’t make any move to leave fully.

His smile turns stiff. “Now he’s gettin’ it,” he murmurs, seemingly more to himself than Peter. His voice is low and warm, almost inviting.

The mixed signals are driving him up the wall. He’s threatening in every way, yet not threatening at all; Peter isn’t sure what to think.

Before he can respond, Wade turns away and steps back into his apartment. “See ya later, hot stuff!” he hoots. With that the door slams, making Peter jump.

Taking a deep breath, he locks his jaw and turns, stiffly returning to his own apartment, his heart thrumming in his chest. He locks the door and closes the latch despite knowing he’ll just have to open it whenever Riel shows back up, but even that can’t quiet his instincts.

Pressing his forehead to the door, he stares down at the floor, willing his pulse to ease. “Nothing can be easy, can it?” he mumbles. Natush bumps against his leg in response.

**Author's Note:**

> Bitte - German, please  
> Bubbe - Yiddish, grandma  
> Mota - Spanish, weed  
> Skjaldmær - Old Norse, Shieldmaiden
> 
> So! Lots of shit is going down! Pete is pretty oblivious! Poor babe. Also, the "ten chapters" is sort of a hesitant plan for this. I think it's going to turn out much longer but I'm not sure!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@Glimcold](www.glimcold.tumblr.com) and if you'd like access to WIP and so on you can support me [here!](https://www.patreon.com/glimcold)
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and comments to support the work!**


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